


Mad Gamer Chick Universe: Concurrencies

by Zoop (zoop526)



Series: The Pwn Heard Round the World of Warcraft [5]
Category: World of Warcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: Collection of short pieces filling in the gaps of Karie's narrative and revealing what minor characters get up to when she's not looking.





	1. Introduction

Azeroth is a big place with a wealth of events and people. Some of them swirl around Karie like gusts of wind that blow in and out of the Diary seemingly at random. On occasion, a few might blow back in later. She has touched many lives within the Horde, as well as the Alliance, during her adventures. Far too many to keep up with at times.

This collection of short pieces brings closure to tales begun and left dangling, unresolved. It fills in gaps during a character's hiatus from the main story. Hopefully, these bits and pieces of 'Gamer Chick Lore' answer the questions that inevitably arise when the narrator of a tale only sees one thin slice of the whole.

Journey with me as I reveal what happens when Karie isn't looking.

**CHAPTERS**

The order of these chapters will fluctuate as events unfold, to avoid spoilers I'm not ready to reveal. The 'triggering' chapters of the Diary will be updated to point you here when a related event is expounded.

Chapter 1: How I Met Your Hunter, with Bekka and Kroxxar – Pre-Diary

Chapter 2: No Witnesses, With Nadezhda – Diary Day 70

Chapter 3: I Did It All For You, with Harag – Diary Day 70

Chapter 4: A Better Life, with Fentulk – Diary Day 150


	2. How I Met Your Hunter, with Bekka and Kroxxar – Pre-Diary

In the space of time between the click and the snap, Rebecca Galeheart knew she was done for. The trap closed on her right leg with almost enough force to snap the bone. She nearly bit through her lip to stop from crying out, fearing the hunter who set it might be nearby.

She'd sent her pet jogging ahead and swiftly recalled it. The great grizzly bear she'd named Daryl just for fun loped back to her as she sank to the ground. Daryl sniffed around her wound, and drew back sharply with a growl. The hunter's scent must still linger, Bekka mused. So it wasn't an old, forgotten trap. Judging by the crudeness of its construction, she guessed it must be Horde.

Daryl panted in the stifling heat of Hellfire Peninsula as he swiveled his head about, watching for threats while Bekka pried at the jaws of the trap with a stick. The jaws had no teeth, at least. That was a blessing. Though the trap looked like an amateur hunter assembled it, she soon learned that looks were deceiving. The mechanism was tight and strong; its prey was not meant to escape. To add fuel to the fire, the trap was chained to a spike driven into the ground too deeply for her to remove it. If she could have pulled it free, she might have hauled herself onto Daryl's back and ridden him back to Honor Hold.

The dry stick broke in half. Grimacing through the pain, she emptied the bullets from her rifle and tried to use the barrel as a lever. She froze when Daryl's head rose sharply and a threatening growl rolled from deep in his chest.

Bekka didn't want to turn around. She didn't want to see who was walking toward her; the crunch of heavily booted feet on the gritty sand told her all she needed to know. She sat still as a statue and closed her eyes when the unmistakable feel of a gun barrel pressed into the back of her neck.

The thought briefly passed through her mind to send Daryl on the attack. Such was the bear's discipline, he remained steadfast though tense, awaiting her order. She had no doubt he would leap upon this hunter if he pulled the trigger. She couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her partner; they were meant to face death together, not with one helpless and the other forced to watch.

Very slowly, Bekka raised her hands in surrender. To her surprise, the hunter grunted something under his breath, and retreated a step. The threatening pressure was removed. A large black pig common in Durotar stepped right up to Daryl and glared at him. It snorted provocatively, clearly informing the much larger bear that he should keep his distance or there'd be trouble. Then the hunter came into view and knelt by the trap.

He was an Orc. He didn't look at her or say a word; he simply groped underneath the trap. Quite suddenly, the jaws sprang open, and Bekka was able to pull free. She drew her leg close and rubbed it, regarding the Orc curiously. She couldn't claim any acquaintance with his people off the battlefield, or any understanding of their culture. This one looked a bit put out, as though he wasn't certain he was doing the right thing. After a moment, he turned his head and looked her in the eyes.

His eyes were brown. Her strongest, and worst, memories of Orcs were of their red eyes. Somehow, the red eyes were worse than the sharp tusks and predatory teeth, the towering height and thick muscles. She hadn't expected soft, gentle brown eyes would ever be set in their monstrous green faces. Except he didn't look like a monster. Perhaps in battle, with teeth bared and a war cry on his lips, he would appear monstrous. But just now, kneeling mere feet away from her with his rifle slung and a look of uncertainty on his face, he seemed like a normal person. Someone who had, perhaps, just done something he feared he might regret later, but felt he must do just this way no matter the cost.

She found herself smiling at him. Grateful, relieved, and most assuredly friendly. He was nothing like the creatures her father boasted he'd slain by the hundreds through two wars. Nor was he like the mannerless brutes her brother complained vociferously about in the Argent Dawn. He was a hunter, like her. He had a loyal pet, like she did. Glancing at the pack he'd set on the ground, it was clear he was scouring the desert for buzzard meat and pork to supply his base, just like she was. It was likely the trap was meant for one of those spiked, fel-afflicted boars that roamed the sands, not for a clumsy, inattentive Alliance hunter.

He hesitated, but finally smiled awkwardly in return. She asked his name, and he frowned. He shook his head, and said something incomprehensible. Disappointed, Bekka instead held out her hand. He shook it, one firm jerk with a hand large enough to cover her whole face. Then he rose and gave a sharp command; his pig let loose another loud snort at Daryl, then heeled to his master's side. Bekka struggled to stand, and found her leg was too weak and shaky to hold her weight. As she teetered, she felt a large hand take her elbow and steady her. She met his eyes again, and was amused to see his cheeks darken in what might be a blush before he released her and stepped back a few feet. Uncomfortable now, he stared at the ground, nodded in her direction, then turned toward Thrallmar. Bekka leaned against Daryl and watched him, wondering when she'd see that hunter again.


	3. No Witnesses, With Nadezhda – Diary Day 70

Nadezhda fell to screaming that still rings in her ears as she slowly comes to consciousness. For a moment, she is disoriented: Karie is in trouble. There are a Goblin and an Orc, a great deal of shouting, a knife at her throat...

Not at Karie's throat. No, the knife was drawn on Nadezhda.

 _I must rise_ , the Draenei paladin tells herself. Yet she is reluctant, fearing what she will see when she opens her eyes. Had they left their comrade's corpse behind? Would she see Karie's beside him, done in after the Orc struck Nadezhda?

 _I am a paladin of the Light_ , she admonishes herself. Firming her resolve, she opens her eyes. The Goblin is splayed upon the floor, just as he was when the silent Orc's arm thrust past Nadezha's body, slicing low and to his right. She can see again the hard-muscled green arm, the thick fist clutching the dagger that gleamed with an unholy light.

Her thoughts are confusion again, and she must shake her head to clear it. It was poison on the blade, not some eldritch enchantment. Had he only nicked his comrade, the result would have been the same. Had he nicked  _her_...

Rubbing the back of her head, Nadezhda sits up and leans against the wall. She must gather herself. The defector – Karie – has undoubtedly departed with the Orc. They were on some sort of mission, the purpose of which was not revealed. Still, she is duty bound to file a report.  _Any_  activity involving the defector must be brought to Shaw's attention.

 _But I **knew**  her_, Nadezhda protests.  _She wept for Rhonin – what person loyal to the Horde would do such a thing?_  Karie did her no harm, and seemed unwilling to do harm to anyone else. Wasn't she as eager to find Anduin as Nadezhda was?

The paladin freezes. They were looking for the prince. Did this mysterious mission somehow involve the young Wrynn? The thought is too awful to contemplate.  _I cannot speculate on such a thing_ , she decides. If anything, Karie seemed to become more agitated and anxious the closer they got to Anduin. Perhaps he knew her personally, and would recognize her? If Karie's mission counted on the woman's anonymity, recognition by such an important figure would certainly foil the Horde's plans.

No, only the known facts could be relied upon. Nadezhda gets to her feet, steadying herself when the room tilts briefly. That Orc struck hard to secure their escape.

Harag. The name comes to her in a flash, for both the Goblin and Karie spoke it repeatedly. With the Orc's name comes a strong vision of Karie's face as she pleaded with the rogue not to harm Nadezhda. Begged him. Insisted Nadezhda knew nothing, all the while that the Goblin urged him to kill her. And then the Goblin drew his own elaborately carved blade, and lunged...

Nadezhda pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes closed, trying to remember. The Orc's arm is a rich shade of green, like new spring grass. There is an old scar on the inside, from wrist to elbow. She did not see his face, but out of the corner of her eye, she recalls that he'd draped a long, unadorned braid over his shoulder. His hair is black. The blade he used to kill his comrade is crude, unlike the fancy sorts of blades she's seen other rogues wield, including the Goblin.

 _He is a simple man,_  she concludes.  _Not one for talk, even in dire circumstances. Straightforward and blunt when he does speak._

Is it her imagination that calls to mind how his tension relaxed a degree under Karie's desperate urging? Did the knife blade lower, or is her mind still rattled?

Yet she wonders as she descends the stairs to inform the innkeeper of the incident. Can it be that Harag saved her from his own comrade? That he had no intention of killing her, regardless of his comrade's commands?

 _I must know the truth_ , she resolves.  _To learn that, I must find him._


	4. I Did It All For You, with Harag – Diary Day 70

Harag falls to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. He drags great gulps of air into his lungs, slowly expanding them. He coughs violently and nearly retches. He can feel his insides realigning.

The teleportation device is one of his own design, but he'd never tested it until today. First things first: has he landed where he intended? It will make things more difficult, if not impossible, if he overshot his target by more than a mile. He raises his head and peers about him.

Only now that his eyes behold the swaying grasses of the Barrens is he aware of the oppressive heat. Good. He has at least landed in the right region. Harag struggles to his feet. Second thing: did he leave any bits behind? He quickly pats himself down. As far as he can tell from cursory examination, he is sufficiently intact. In the middle distance, he sees a modest hut and a pen full of swine, and hesitates.

 _Get moving_ , he admonishes himself. Time is not on his side. He fishes an awkward-looking device from his pack and flips it open. His chopper unfolds in a handful of seconds, then explodes into life, the engine already running. It's a good mile to the farm: Harag mounts the chopper and guns the engine. A plume of dust rises behind him as he races forward.

His approach is loud enough to warn the farmers of his coming. He sees a man and woman, their rich green skin shining with sweat from a hard morning's work. A lump rises in Harag's throat, but he fights it down. He knows they won't be happy to see him, less so when he tells them why he's come.

The male Orc – Gramak – scowls as Harag comes close enough to recognize. He spits on the ground, showing in no uncertain terms where Harag stands with him. The woman, Drahar, glares coldly, her arms crossed.

"Whattayou want?" Gramak snarls as Harag stops and climbs off the chopper. "I thought I made it clear you're not welcome."

"Da, you've gotta..."

"Don't you call me 'da' like nothin' happened!" Gramak roars. Drahar hisses beside him. "You made yer choice."

"Listen to me!" Harag snaps. "We don't have time for this. You gotta get outta here. Now. Both of you." His eyes dart from one to the other, pleading.  _Don't make this harder than it already is_.

"We aren't going anywhere," Drahar growls. "Especially not on  _your_  word."

Harag looks toward Orgrimmar to the east. The skies are clear, for now. "You gotta listen to me. Malkorak is comin'. He'll be here any minute. I did somethin'... I messed up. Real bad."

"And we're to pay for it, are we?" The older Orc's scowl darkens further. "How can you live with yourself? Without honor? Without conscience?"

Harag stares at his father, unable to answer. There isn't time. How can he explain everything in the few minutes they have? "If I don't do what I'm told, you suffer. So I do it. No matter what it is. You suffered enough."

In the space of a heartbeat, the memory of his mother in the camps invades his thoughts. It is a sight that haunts him still, his strong-willed, stubborn mother brought to tears by the abuses of the guards. He sees his father, helpless to defend her, nursing wounds when he tried. He sees himself, ushered to manhood by impotent rage far too soon.

Drahar steps forward and furiously slaps Harag's face, whipping his head sideways and recalling his mind to now. "How dare you lay the blame of your dishonor on our heads!"

"Ain't your fault," Harag mutters, holding his stinging cheek. He can't look at her. "None of it's your fault. I fucked up, and now... now you gotta run. I'm sorry."

"We ain't weak, boy," Gramak grunts. "We worked hard for this place; we'll defend it. We don't need  _you_." Again, he spits at Harag's feet.

"What did you do?" Drahar hisses. Her tone tells him that no horror he commits could possibly shock her anymore.

"Mama," Harag breathes. She doesn't correct him, but her eyes narrow. Swallowing, he confesses, "I murdered my partner to save a Draenei."

Gramak's brow furrows with confusion. "Why would you save one of them? What was goin' on?"

"It doesn't matter now," Harag snaps, shaking himself. "Point is, the whole mission got scuppered 'cause of me. What I did ain't gonna sit well with Malkorok. He'll come for you, to punish me." His eyes dart to the east again, and widen. A formation of several wyverns is headed this way. "Shit! Get the fuck outta here! Don't tell me where you're goin', just go!"

Ignoring his parents' protests, Harag grabs their arms and forces them to run for it. He keeps pace for a few yards, his panic feeding their alarm. They grab the nearest wolves, mount up, and gallop off. Harag stays behind. He might be able to delay Malkorok long enough so his parents can escape.

Turning toward the approaching group, Harag wills himself to calm. He slowly, deliberately draws one dagger, applies a crippling poison, then draws the other for the same. Harag knows death comes for him on wyvern wings, and stands to face it.

* * *

A quarter mile away, Drahar signals for her husband to stop. They conceal themselves and their wolves behind an outcropping of rock. The wolves, unused to the sudden sprint in the heat, stand panting.

In the distance, they can see the farm, and their son standing with naked blades in his hands. Six wyverns land before him. Words are exchanged, angry gestures fly, then the lead Orc pushes Harag roughly. Another punches him, then a fight ensues. Gramak finds his wife's hand, and holds tightly.

Six against one. Though Harag's blades flash in the afternoon sun, he is no match for so many. Gramak automatically sucks in a breath when his son falls. Drahar growls to hide a sob as all six assailants continue to beat and kick the prone figure.

A seventh wyvern arrives, but the rider doesn't dismount. At his word, however, the others disengage from their victim and mount up. The seven take to the skies as the ground rumbles beneath Gramak and Drahar's feet.

They watch, helpless, as the familiar dust cloud kicked up by hundreds of angry kodo feet closes in on their farm. They listen as the wind carries the panicked squeals of their pigs to their ears. They watch until the dust settles, the silhouette of their ruined home's timbers pointing haphazardly skyward. It is impossible to tell from this distance which dark shape strewn about the farm is their son.

"Should we...?" Drahar ventures unsteadily.

Gramak slowly shakes his head. "He wanted us to go. To run. Like as not, that lot'll come back, looking for us. He... Harag knew best."

Closing her eyes, Drahar murmurs, "I would've forgiven him. He did what we could not."

"Honor came too late to him," Gramak replies sadly, "as it came too late to us."


	5. A Better Life, with Fentulk – Diary Day 150

"Hold it steady, now," Tagdish advises. Fentulk obeys, making sure not to let the post drift so much as an inch in any direction. Tagdish and Rugak raise the crosspiece and settle it into position, resting atop the post and connecting with the main part of Fentulk's house. While Rugak holds the crosspiece in place, Tagdish quickly wraps a long leather thong about the end, securing the cross to the post. He does the same at the other end.

Rugak wipes his sweating brow. "Seems just a week ago, we were puttin' up the main house." He grins at his childhood friend. "Didn't waste time, did you?"

Fentulk chuckles. "Nope." He surveys the circle of ground around the post, and his brow furrows worriedly. "Think it's too small?"

'It'll do for a start," Tagdish replies, pushing a mug of ale into his son's hand. "Can always make it bigger when you need to."

A shout comes from the watchtower nearby. A troop of warriors thunders past on wolves. Fentulk's frown returns.

"Seems them attacks've been comin' more often," Tagdish observes quietly.

"You think it might be cause of what they're doin' on Azeroth?" Rugak asks.

"Who can tell?" the elder Orc shrugs. "They don't keep us informed of their doin's. If they're up to somethin', and it involves demons, they sure as hell don't bother us with it."

"Got enough demons to worry about," Fentulk adds. He had hoped for peace here in Garadar with his mate. It was what he promised. Yet not long after they became lifemates, demon activity to the west began to increase. Game animals became more scarce. Hunters began disappearing as they traveled farther afield in search of meat. Then the very walls of Garadar became a target.

"Kashka says they're testin' us," Tagdish supplies. "Lookin' for weaknesses." He spits on the ground, suddenly angered. His mate should be enjoying a quiet life, training whelps and preparing for her grandkids, not guarding the gates with the young pups. She's done her time, just as he has. The wars are over, aren't they?

"Fuck," Rugak snarls under his breath. He has caught sight of a messenger swooping low over the eastern wall. The distinctive red of a Horde tabard marks the newcomer's identity. "Whatta they want now?"

"Better go see," Fentulk sighs. "Can't be good, whatever it is." The three Mag'har make their way to the council hall.

Greatmother Geyah is looking at the messenger with a shocked expression as Fentulk, Rugak, and Tagdish arrive. "How can this be?"

Several other Orcs are here as well, all drawn by the rare sight of a Horde soldier. The green Orc nods to the growing crowd and continues delivering his message.

"Grom Hellscream lives on the other Draenor, Greatmother. He has invited any who survive here to come and resettle. He knows of the conditions, what is left of this place, and your struggles. He is offering a fresh start to any who do not have a... version of themselves on his Draenor." He sighs apologetically. "I'm afraid your counterpart is alive there, so..."

The elder shaman slowly sits. One of her apprentices assists her. "This will require... thought and... and planning. Such a generous offer..."

"Time is short," the messenger adds. "The Horde and Alliance will be closing off their portals in a week's time. There will not be any access after that."

"And I cannot lead my people there."

"I'm sorry, no." He fumbles a scroll from his pack. "This is a list of all the folk who were lost during the conflict there. Most of them were Iron Horde. Followers of Garrosh. Any whose name is on this list, or were born later than their time, are free to relocate."

There is a scramble to get a hold of the scroll. Tagdish and his son hold back, too stunned to move. Rugak addresses the messenger.

"What about demons? You say it's another Draenor. Are there demons?"

The messenger nods. "Some, yes. But they do not have the foothold they gained here, and the Orcs and Draenei are united against them."

Many freeze where they stand. "United?" one blurts incredulously. "Draenei and Orcs?"

"Yes. The blood of Mannoroth was offered, but it was denied. The Orcs were never corrupted there. No genocidal war was engaged."

"The world is... intact?" another whispers, afraid of the answer.

Smiling, the messenger nods again. "It is as we all remember it, in our younger days."

"To see Frostfire Ridge once more...," Geyah breathes, closing her eyes. Then her eyes snap open, and she fixes the messenger with a hard look. "My sons."

"Durotan lives," he confirms uncomfortably. "And Draka, his mate. No others survive."

"Ga'nar no doubt died gloriously in battle," she murmurs. The messenger nods.

"He did. Most bravely, I was told."

"I will see my boy again," Geyah growls defiantly, rising to her feet. She waves off her apprentice's aid. "You will not stop me from going to this world. I must see my son."

"With all due respect, he is not your son." The messenger addresses the Mag'har, their numbers increased over the last several minutes as word of the offer spread. "This is Draenor as it might have been. There are familiar folk there, but they are not us, they are not our relations. They are different." He turns once more to Geyah. "Your mate was not felled by a pox, but by his eldest son's hand."

Geyah winces and bows her head. "Nevertheless, I will go there." She glares at the messenger. "I'm certain my twin would allow it."

"Perhaps... permission for such an important figure as yourself...," the messenger hedges reluctantly. "I shall appeal to their warchief on your behalf." Turning to the crowd, he adds, "I will return in a week. All those who are on this list or are less than thirty years of age, and wish to come, have your belongings packed and ready upon my return."

Fentulk and Rugak hang back as Tagdish joins the throng poring over the list.

"Whattayou think?" Rugak asks.

"I dunno. Have to talk about it with Joanne. Sure is temptin'. I mean, how much longer are we gonna hold out here? The demons are squeezin' us out, animals are dyin', bound to run outta water some time..."

"There's yer whelp to think of, too," Rugak points out. "You want it comin' into a world broken in pieces, or one that still lives?"

Fentulk nods. "I promised her peace. Ain't been able to give it to her. Maybe there..."

Rugak snorts. "You heard what he said. They got their share of demons, too."

"Not near as many," Fentulk points out. "You know much about that... uh, other...?" He shakes his head, unsure how to refer to this 'new' Draenor.

His friend shakes his head. "First I've heard of it. Yer da's right: them folks on Azeroth don't bother us with their business, and stay clear of ours. Until now."

"Until now." Fentulk furrows his brow, thinking hard. He realizes in moments that he has made up his mind, and merely searches for counterarguments if Joanne disagrees with him. Chuckling, he shakes his head. "You and me, we're both young enough. Joanne's not from this world. We can go."

"Aye," Rugak nods. "We can. Tell you what: they're gonna have to chase me off. I ain't stayin' in this shit hole a minute longer'n I have to." He gives Fentulk a hard look. "The Mok'nathal village is right on the edge. We can look straight into the abyss. More'n a couple kids've been lost, playin' too close to the ledge. If I ever have another... I don't wanna see... Not one of mine, goin' that way."

"Me neither. That's settled. You, me, and Joanne." He glances over, and sees his father returning with an unreadable expression. "Shit."

"You two weren't on the list?" Rugak asks, frowning.

Tagdish draws a deep breath. "No, we was on there. We... that is, our other... The other us. They were Iron Horde. They fell at Shattrath." He rubs his forehead, clearly troubled. "Don't know how to feel 'bout that."

"You heard what the messenger said, da," Fentulk reminds him quietly. "They ain't us. Things're different there. So... them bein' dead, you and ma can go. All of us can go." A smile creeps across his face. "Cause I'm takin' Joanne, and I know you wanna see yer grandkids."

"Yep," Tagdish nods, firming his mouth to hide a smile. "Wonder which of you the little mite'll favor."

"Me too." Fentulk claps his father's shoulder. "Come on. Let's tell the women."

Tagdish's face splits in a grin. "Boy, what makes you think you can 'tell the women' and get yer way?"

Fentulk taps his temple. "Got all my proofs and counters right up here."

"You  _think_  you do," Tagdish scoffs. "Nah, you let me do the talkin'. I been at this game a lot longer. Watch and learn."

Sharing a wink with Rugak, Fentulk rolls up his sleeves. "Ma's gonna make a meal of you, da."


End file.
